


Break

by sellswordking



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:04:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sellswordking/pseuds/sellswordking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the tension between them, they were bound for this. Wash knew he couldn't resist it for long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break

**Author's Note:**

> This was done super quickly after a dream I had, and I apologize for the whole goddamn thing.

Something had been building between them since they set off a week ago to find the Epsilon unit.

Wash had done his best to keep control, his knuckles white around the reigns as the ride began to get rough with all the things unsaid.

That thing wasn’t Maine. It _wasn’t_. Wash _knew_ that it wasn’t; Maine has died a long time ago, with Carolina, and with the project. But that didn’t stop the thick, suffocating tension in their vehicle, or the fact that every time those low growls started, Wash always found himself torn between wanting to pull over and climb onto the Meta’s lap or drive into the nearest hazard and kill them both.

They stopped to rest only as often as necessary, neither seeming to particularly trust the other to go in shifts, and that was where exhaustion left them now.

Wash studied his map as the Meta cared lovingly for the weapons he could still use.

Perhaps that was it, the loss of the _precious_ AI that was creating such a suffocating atmosphere between them. The Meta hadn’t forgotten that Wash was the one that wiped them all out, detonating the EMP with Alpha’s help. Maybe he wanted revenge. Maybe he wanted to see Wash ripped apart as payback for being trapped in his suit without use of the equipment the Meta had carved a bloody path through their friends to get.

A hiss drew Wash from his thoughts.

“What?” He snapped, a little guiltily. ( _Why_ should he feel guilty? The Meta didn’t feel guilt.)

The Meta growled at him again.

“No. We had this conversation; I drive, I navigate. You sit there and snarl like a dog when we finally get to those idiots and get what we need.” The Meta’s hiss was less than pleased. “I don’t care.”

Wash’s tone was flat, his words as frank as possible. They weren’t friends, they were reluctantly working together. He would _not_ be pulled in.

_______

On the second week, the tension snapped.

The Meta had been more vocal (if you could call it that) and Wash’s answers had been less than patient, adding layers to the already suffocating animosity between them.

Wash ripped his helmet off and threw it against the car.

“If you have such a problem then why don’t you just shoot me again and try to do all of this yourself, because that worked _so_ well for you last time!” It was stupid to show any vulnerability to the Meta, but Wash was beyond that. He would rather die than keep up this stupid game.

The answer he got, though, wasn’t exactly a bullet between his eyes.

The Meta’s fingers wrapped around the back of his neck and for one brief moment, Wash thought this was how he was going to die until he realized it was only one of the Meta’s hands. The other had gone . . . for the clasps holding his chest plate together?

A snarl keyed him in.

“ _No_.” Wash said, firmly. When he tried to struggle, the hand at his nape held tighter, and the Meta purred lowly. _Laughing at me_ , Wash realized. “We are _not_ doing this.”

His chest piece hit the dirt, and Wash brought his pistol from its holster at his hip to press against the Meta’s throat. It was so familiar that they both paused, but instead of letting go, the Meta took off his helmet.

It was _amazing_ , how nothing had changed. The years between them and Project Freelancer—between Wash and Maine, _David and Matty_ —were _nothing_. Scar tissue wound its way up the side of the Meta’s face, and his nose hadn’t been set from so many breaks it was bent and crooked now, but his _eyes_ were the same, and he was _smirking_. Without the filter in his helmet, the snarling was much rougher, but less animal.

Wash didn’t lower the pistol.

“Get your goddamn hand _off_ me.” Wash sounded so hollow, even he didn’t believe it.

The Meta leaned in closer, forcing the gun to jam against the hollow of his throat.

He growled.

_You want this._

Wash launched himself at the Meta, not so much kissing him as ripping into his mouth, all teeth until he finally drew blood. It was nothing like their kisses used to be; when they had the time to be alone they would take things slowly and sweetly, because that was their nature. Everyone who saw the power Maine had assumed he would be just as rough out of armour but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Hands that used to treat Wash like he was fragile and precious were digging wrents into his Kevlar bodysuit, tearing armour off as they went. Wash was just as impatient, practically strangling the Meta to get his suit off and keep contact.

Wash was lifted off the ground and slammed against the rock wall of the enclave where they had stopped for the night. He realized that the Meta had gotten every single stitch off him, that this was _real_ and fuck, he _wanted_ it. Maybe he had wanted it since the moment they set out together, maybe he wanted it since the fucking ship crashed, it didn’t matter. He was going to get it.

The Meta bit down on his throat and Wash’s nails drew blood from his shoulder in return. Every sensation was too much--it was an overload after having been alone for _years_. He didn’t know with what, but when the head of the Meta’s cock pressed against him it was slicked and burning hot, all at once it was too familiar. Wash twisted and tried to meet the Meta’s hips as he was worked open, but the bastard held him still, intent on dragging it out.

When he was fully seated, the Meta didn’t move, drawing out this moment. A low growl keyed Wash in, and he brought up the pistol still clenched tightly in his hand to rest against the Meta’s temple.

“If you don’t move, I’m going to empty this fucking clip into your skull. You won’t get up this time.” Wash said, voice tight but wearing thin on control. This would _not_ turn into something it wasn’t.

The first thrust was brutal, and only got worse from there. Each one shoved Wash harder into the rocks, bruising his back and bringing tears to his eyes. The Meta bit and gripped and didn’t try to communicate with him beyond the message being seared into his skin.

Ownership, the inability to say no, the fact that Wash still _wanted_ this.

Every thrust was so deep it felt like the ache was all the way up to his chest, so familiar but at the same time _nothing_ like what he was used to. Wash was screaming himself raw, his entire body shaking as the fire in his gut took over. All except the hand still holding the gun to the Meta’s head. The only clear thing in his mind was the knowledge that he could pull the trigger at any second, and keep pulling until there was nothing left. He could rid them both of this sickness.

Wash came so hard spots danced in front of his eyes, hearing went dull in his right ear and the adrenaline rush felt like a second wave of pleasure that left him shaking.

If the Meta made a sound, Wash didn’t hear it.

The next thing he was aware of was his legs being lowered to the ground, and the full body ache that would plague him for days to come. Wash couldn’t tell what was just bruises and what might have been bleeding, but he didn’t care.

The Meta was silent as he redressed, and by the time his helmet was on, Wash was still naked and shivering against the rock wall.

Dully, he looked at his reflection in the gold visor. He looked, for once, exactly like what he felt; a broken, used slut.

He smiled.

At least the tension was gone.


End file.
